


ten thousand miles apart

by mycleverusername



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Boys In Love, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, weighted blankets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26131891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycleverusername/pseuds/mycleverusername
Summary: In which Patrick buys David a weighted blanket to cheer him up after the Roses leave town and then finds himself overcome with jealousy of an inanimate object.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 60
Kudos: 202





	ten thousand miles apart

**Author's Note:**

> *Taps mic* Hi there. Long time lurker, first time writer. Inspired by my love of my weighted blanket and the world’s greatest Amazon review, from which I took some truly inspired lines (original review embedded at the end). 
> 
> Title is from California King Bed by Rihanna. 
> 
> Enjoy!

If Patrick had three wishes, he would use them all to make David happy. Well. Two to make David happy, and one to secure the next World Series for the Blue Jays.

David seems happiest when he’s decorating their new house, lovingly hanging up memorabilia from their relationship and displaying trinkets from their vendors and mood-boarding future, big-picture projects that will require savings and Ronnie to complete. David hasn’t been able to properly scratch his itch to design in _years._ The motel was such a lost cause that David wouldn’t have known where to start, besides burning it down. The store was his baby, but it was only one room, and he did have to consider the customer when he was designing it – only a little bit, of course, because he had flawless taste and any customer who disagreed was one whose business he didn’t want. (Patrick disagreed, strongly, when David told him this.) Patrick’s studio wasn’t quite it, either, because they’d been in a weird spot, after the “are we or aren’t we moving in together” debacle. By the time David got over it, or past it, whichever, Patrick had already mostly finished moving in.

The prospect of decorating the cottage, a whole house, thrills David – making it chic and classy and still cozy and comfortable and _home_. Even when he thought he had everything he wanted it was all in his Dad’s name. For years after, all he’d had to call his own was half a dreary motel room, a twin bed and some dubiously acquired linens. The cottage is his, but better, because it’s his and Patrick’s, it’s _theirs._ Patrick lets David do as he pleases, trusting him as always to make it beautiful and looking on fondly as David gestures wildly at various corners where he plans to put theoretical furniture.

David seems happy, but Patrick can’t be sure. Between the Roses leaving town and Stevie going away on business trips and moving a whole Love Room’s worth of sweaters into Patrick’s apartment and moving _again_ a month later into their house, becoming homeowners with a _mortgage,_ terrifying, Patrick and David are both overwhelmed and exhausted. Patrick knows that David loves him, loves their store and their cottage, but he also sees David deflate a little every time he talks to his parents on the phone or FaceTimes with Alexis, hears about days at the beach and New York bagels and Nicole Kidman and Broadway shows. David never complains, but Patrick can’t help but feel like he’s holding his husband back from the full, colorful life he deserves.

*****

They’re lying in bed one lazy Sunday morning when they don’t have to open the store until noon. David’s head is pillowed on Patrick’s chest, his fingers playing with the soft fabric of his worn-out high school baseball t-shirt, while Patrick’s hand smooths broad circles on David’s shoulder. David talks, stream of consciousness, about ideas for the combined guest bedroom and office. Patrick interjects occasionally – “I’ve always wanted one of those chairs that’s a giant hand,” for example – just to see how high-pitched David’s refusals can get. Eventually, David points at the wall across from the foot of the bed.

“Ooh, and after the office, I want to punch through that wall and build my closet in the little bedroom next door. I’ve already got the design sketched out. Shelves, some hanging space, a whole wall of cedar paneling…” He trails off, smiling as he imagines how nice it will be to give his knits the respect they deserve after years in the world’s most atrocious red motel room.

Patrick’s hand stills on David’s shoulder. “David,” he starts. The man in question lifts his chin to rest on Patrick’s chest so he can look him in the eye.

“We can’t tear down the wall.”

David sits up, annoyed. “Well, I know we can’t afford to right now, but maybe next year after we’re set up in all the motels? That will increase our revenues. We can budget for it.” He is very proud of himself for using the words “revenue” and “budget” in a sentence.

“No, David, not ever,” Patrick responds, pointedly looking away from David’s glare. “If we ever want to sell this place, we cannot reduce the number of bedrooms. It would tank the resale value.”

“They could still be considered two separate bedrooms with a door between them.”  
  


“David,” Patrick says. He can’t believe he doesn’t see the parallel. “Would you pay for a house where the bedroom arrangement was the same as living in a motel with your family?” David’s face falls, Patrick has to fix it, so he keeps talking, thinking as he goes. “But, how about this, you can put whatever closet storage system you want in the bedroom next door. If we leave the walls how they are.”

David considers this. “So, the whole room would still be my walk-in closet?”

“You just have to walk a few extra steps to get there.”

“Compromise accepted.” David is getting very good at this compromise thing. “And, since we aren’t knocking down walls, it’ll be cheaper! Maybe we don’t even have to wait until the motel money comes in!”

Patrick cringes. David has fantasized excitedly about his plans for the profits from a vastly expanded Rosebud contract several times recently – current season designer sweaters, luxurious vacations. Patrick had hoped that David would realize the problems with the idea on his own, but it looks like he needs to be the bearer of even more bad news.

“About that…” He rubs at his face, unsure of the best way to explain it. “David, we can’t supply all of the new motels.”

David crosses his arms angrily in front of his chest. Their peaceful morning snuggling in bed is a distant memory. “And why not?”

“David. Ok. Imagine there are 100 motels. And they each have 10 rooms, and each of those rooms is occupied, I don’t know, 200 nights a year.” David’s eyes glaze over like they always do when Patrick starts talking in numbers.

“No, David, listen. This is important, and I know you actually do understand. That’s 200,000 of each product. Every year. And that’s a conservative estimate, I mean, if they have more than 10 rooms, and they’re occupied more often, and I know they want to expand beyond 100 motels…” Patrick stops himself. He’s getting off track. “Brenda is a retired grandmother who makes moisturizer in a workshop that used to be her garage. David, we can’t ask Brenda to make 200,000 bottles of moisturizer a year.”

“Right,” David says, softly, as the reality settles in. “Right, you’re right. That’s insane.” He looks so crestfallen that Patrick thinks he can feel his heart splitting in two.

David shakes his head as he gets out of bed and crosses to the bathroom. “I have to do my face,” he mutters, and closes the bathroom door behind himself. Patrick sighs and clonks his head back against their headboard.

*****

That afternoon, Patrick takes advantage of a lull to make a caffeine run to the café. He takes his time talking to Twyla to give David a few minutes to himself. Crossing the street back to the store, he sees his husband through the window, standing at the register, on the phone. David looks tense. Great. Patrick pushes open the door and the bells chime. David doesn’t even look up in acknowledgement. Double great.

“No, Dad, listen. We can’t supply the motels… Because Brenda can’t!... Brenda, she makes our moisturizer… It’s just an example, Dad!” As if Patrick didn’t feel bad enough, now he’s caused an argument between his husband and father-in-law. Triple great.

  
“We can’t,” David continues, sounding more and more frustrated. “Are you kidding me? _No_ we can’t just get something mass-produced and ‘slap our label’ on it… Because our motto is “one of a kind, locally sourced”! Mass-produced is _completely_ off-brand, and I will not disgrace my store like that!”

Patrick uses a break in the rant to place David’s coffee into the hand not holding the phone. David startles, finally noticing Patrick. He relaxes, visibly, shoulders coming down from around his ears and jaw unclenching, at the sight of him. “Dad,” he says, interrupting Johnny from whatever he was saying. “I have to go. There’s a customer,” he lies. “Can we talk about this later?” Or never would be fine. “Thanks. Yeah, tell Mom I said hi. Yeah…” A long pause. “I love you too.” He hangs up.

Patrick kisses him on the cheek as David slumps against the counter. He knows he should be here for David, rub his back, but he also feels like he’s about to crawl out of his skin. “I’m sorry your Dad doesn’t understand,” he says. “But… are you okay out here for a while? There’s some… tax stuff I have to finish.”

David shrugs. Patrick supposes that’s as positive a response as he’s likely to get at this point. He kisses David again, takes his tea, and goes to sit at his desk in the back. He drops his elbows on the desk and his face in his palms and breathes deeply, trying not to cry. He wishes he had just kept his mouth shut when David brought up the motel contract. Patrick feels so guilty he can hardly breathe. He’s keeping David from his family and from city life and from gourmet food and from street food and from art galleries and from people and places where his fashion sense would be appreciated. He can’t even make David rich in Schitt’s Creek.

Patrick knows he has to do something. He opens his laptop. He really does have taxes to work on, but whatever, he doubts he’ll be able to fall asleep tonight anyway. Patrick asks Google for help – “gifts for people with anxiety”, “comforting gifts”, and other variations on the theme. He clicks through a few listicles before he finds just the thing: a weighted blanket. Websites promise decreased anxiety and “deep touch therapy” and better, deeper sleep. It’s perfect.

Patrick spends more than an hour going down an Internet wormhole trying to find the best one. Most weighted blankets are, apparently, regular blankets filled with plastic or glass beads. He reads reviews that talk about feeling or hearing the beads shifting around at night. He imagines David’s indignation – “blankets shouldn’t make noise, Patrick,” – and knows that won’t do. He settles on a different brand that makes beautiful, woven weighted blankets out of nothing but heavy fabric. The price makes him cringe. It’s more than double some of the others you can get off Amazon, but this is the only one he’s found that fits David’s aesthetic. Besides, it’s an apology. Several apologies. He types in his credit card information and turns to his actual work, all the while wondering if he’ll ever be able to fulfill his promise to make David happy.

*****

A week later, Patrick is standing in the kitchen stirring soup on the stove when he hears David’s key in the door.

“Patrick?”

“In the kitchen,” he calls back. Why does David sound out of breath?

“Did you order a box of rocks?” David asks, coming into view lugging a compact but obviously heavy package. “Patrick?”

Patrick snaps out of his momentary daydream remembering David carrying a similarly unwieldy box of dog sweaters into Rose Apothecary. “It came!”

“What came?” David asks again, dropping the box on the counter with a loud thud. He stares at it. “Your…cinderblock?”

“ _Your_ cinderblock,” Patrick responds with a smile, grabbing a pair of scissors out of the junk drawer and slicing open the cardboard. “It’s a present. Go sit on the couch.”

“Why do I have to sit on the couch?” David asks, even though he turns and heads in that direction anyway. He trusts Patrick. He sits.

“Put your feet up on the coffee table,” Patrick says, ignoring the question. He pulls the blanket out of the box and assesses it. Thankfully, it is just as advertised, soft and pretty, stone grey. It’s impressively heavy. He carries it over to the living room where David is sitting, as requested, with his feet up. Patrick drops the folded-up blanket in David’s lap and unfolds it to cover David’s long limbs.

“Oooh,” David says, shimmying his shoulders under the blanket and wiggling to find the comfiest position. “I’ve been wanting one of these!”

Relief floods through Patrick. He grins. “How does it feel?”

David sighs happily. “Like when you go to the dentist and they put the lead apron on you so you don’t get radiation poisoning from the x-ray machine.”

Patrick squints, contemplating this image and making a mental note to schedule a teeth cleaning. “And that’s… good?”

“Mhmm, so good,” David yawns. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was sleepy.”

“It’s OK, rest. I’ll get you when dinner’s ready.” Patrick smooths back David’s hair, kisses his forehead, and retreats to the kitchen, thrilled that his gift was so well-received.

They don’t eat until 9:00pm because David is sleeping so deeply that Patrick can’t bear to wake him. Patrick doesn’t mind. David seems calmer, more settled than he has in weeks, and newly energized from his nap, he thanks Patrick _very_ enthusiastically for the present once they retire to bed for the evening.

*****

It doesn’t take long for Patrick to realize that he’s made a mistake. ( _Big mistake, huge,_ his brain supplies, having apparently been forced to watch _Pretty Woman_ enough times that it has involuntarily retained select quotes). After a few days of the weighted blanket being reserved for afternoon naps on the couch, David decides to bring it to bed for the night. Patrick comes out of the bathroom in his t-shirt and boxers to find David already half-asleep, fully encased in the blanket from neck to toes. Hmm. The blanket is an unexpected obstacle to the activities Patrick had hoped to initiate.

Patrick climbs onto the bed and leans over to pepper kisses on David’s face.

“Mmm. Not tonight, honey,” David murmurs. “Too cozy to move. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“Love you.”

“I love you too.” Patrick gets under the covers and looks over at David, amused at how fast his breath evens out. Patrick frowns as he realizes just how inaccessible every part of his husband is, not even a shoulder free to rest his head against. He sighs. Maybe David won’t like sleeping with the weighted blanket. Maybe he’ll wake up sweating in the middle of the night and the blanket will be banished back to the couch for naps. He rolls over onto his side, realizing with dread that he did not consider all of the potential ramifications of his impulsive gift.

*****

David does not hate sleeping with the weighted blanket. He loves it. Every night he entombs himself in the blanket, completely out of Patrick’s reach. It’s not that they stop having sex – they are definitely still newlyweds in that regard – but after, Patrick comes out of the bathroom to find his husband fully cocooned. He hates that stupid blanket.

Patrick can’t even escape it during the day. David talks about it to anyone who will listen. He sounds like an infomercial. David reads actual academic papers on the benefits of weighted blankets. He even calls Julie, who makes their alpaca throws, and asks her to investigate the possibility of making weighted blankets for the store.

He breaks his own rule of not video chatting from their bedroom (“I’ve had my family in my bedroom enough for a lifetime, thank you very much”) to call Alexis one Sunday from bed, purposefully snuggled up to his chin in the woven fabric.

“David, what’s this cute little blankie?” she asks. He is more than happy to explain.

*****

Weeks pass and endless summer turns, finally, to fall. Business at the store picks up, thanks to a new contract with a local apple orchard to sell apples and donuts and cider. They’re so busy they finally give in and hire a local teenager to pick up some shifts. Patrick thinks about all of the mornings they could spend in bed, just the two of them. Well, the three of them. Two humans and one blanket that gets more prime real estate in the bed than any inanimate object deserves, surely.

Patrick despises the weighted blanket. He hates it more than he’s ever hated anything in his life. It’s like the Great Wall of China in his bed. It’s like David is wearing a suit of armor to sleep every night. He spends 24 hours a day with David and he misses him. But he can’t say anything. He can’t say anything because David loves it and he loves David and he’s the stupid idiot who bought the thing in the first place.

So he grins and bears it. And he’s happy, on the whole, really, he is. David makes him happy. For as much as David hates team sports, he’s very good at being on a team with Patrick. The two of them work best when they work together. When they train their new part-time employee, David teaches the products and Patrick teaches the books.

Sometimes they surprise each other, too, and take on the other’s role: it’s Patrick who designs the display for the pumpkins and squash that customers can’t stop complimenting. It’s David who comes up with the idea that Rose Apothecary will supply the initial round of 30 new motels in the province, expanding their business without compromising their principles. David who handles all of the negotiations with the relevant suppliers to make sure they can pull it off, David who approaches Mr. Rose and Stevie with an airtight proposal that leaves them no choice but to sign on the dotted line.

David is happy. Patrick thinks David is happy. He’ll do anything to keep that little half-smile on David’s face, even if it means he goes to sleep every night and dreams fitfully of wrestling with 20 pounds of grey cotton that have somehow come to life.

*****

They sit at their kitchen table one night in mid-November eating ice cream and making plans for the holiday season, when the Roses and Brewers will all converge on Schitt’s Creek to celebrate Christmas and Hanukkah. Patrick and David discuss hosting a holiday party and inviting all of the usual suspects; David wants to show off their home but is terrified of Roland coming within 500 feet of the place. Patrick pulls up their Google Calendar to add Alexis’ flight details, sent earlier that day in a flurry of airplane and Christmas tree and Jewish star emojis.

“Oh!” David chirps around the spoon in his mouth. He puts it down in his bowl and continues. “I saw Ronnie at the café today and she confirmed she’ll be here to do my closet on the 12th and 13th.”

Patrick logs this information in the calendar. “You know, you never did tell me how you got her to give us such a good deal.”

“She…just offered.” Patrick stares at David in disbelief. David grimaces.

“She really did just offer,” he elaborates, “but she may have implied that she had been looking for a way to give us a wedding present that was really just for me.”

Patrick huffs out a laugh. That does make more sense. “David, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

David freezes. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you happy?” The mood in the room becomes suddenly uneasy. “Here? With me?”

“David…”

“Because you haven’t seemed very happy, lately. You’ve been…distant. We don’t…” David sighs. “At night, in bed, it feels like you’re trying to get as far away from me as possible.”

Patrick’s jaw drops and he stares at David for a long moment before bursting out laughing.

“What?” David crosses his arms in front of his chest angrily. “I tell you I’m scared we’ve been married three months and you’re already sick of me, and you laugh?”

“No, no, no,” Patrick wipes at his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. “David. I’ve been far away from you in bed because I physically can’t get any closer. It’s… it’s the blanket, David.”

“The _blanket?_ ”

“Yes, God, I hate that thing. It’s like…it’s like you’re locked up in a castle guarded by a moat. And a dragon.”

“Oh, my god,” David starts laughing too. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you love it! And it’s been helping you, I think, at least you’ve seemed at lot less anxious recently.”

David narrows his eyes at his husband. “Patrick. It’s a blanket, not a therapist. Or a Xanax.”

“But you read me all those articles that said weighted blankets can help with anxiety! And I just… I just want you to be happy. How can I keep asking you to give things up for me?”

David considers his words carefully. “I was having a hard time, you’re right, with moving and my family leaving town… but… change is hard. It always is, for me. But, Patrick, and I really mean this, I love our life. I am not giving up anything to be with you here. Truly, this is the happiest I’ve ever been. I love that you want to make me happy. But that goes both ways, I need you to be happy too. And if that means burning the blanket, fine. Let’s go light up the fire pit.”

Patrick stands up, walks over, and drops down into David’s lap. He nuzzles his face into David’s neck and wraps his arms around his shoulders. They sit like this for a long minute, David’s hands smoothing over Patrick’s back. “We shouldn’t burn the blanket. It was expensive,” Patrick mumbles finally. “Maybe just, evict it from our bedroom.”

“A couch blanket,” David agrees.

Patrick gets up and offers David his hand, leading him towards the stairs. He feels twenty pounds lighter, warm and fuzzy inside.

“You know,” David remarks, “I have gotten used to falling asleep with like, a nice weight just, right on my chest. Do you think you’ll be able to help me out with that?”

“Baby,” Patrick murmurs, pausing on the stairs and pulling David into a kiss. “We do what we have to do.”

*****

**Author's Note:**

> Patrick buys David a [Bearaby](https://bearaby.com/products/the-napper?variant=20782759313497) (warning: if you click you will get their ads for the rest of your life). 
> 
> How many motels they really plan to open is a mystery – first it’s 30, then it’s 10,000. Unlike Patrick Brewer I was not a business major, but I do watch a lot of Shark Tank, so my first thought when I heard 10,000 was “But how will Brenda SCALE??” I figured 30 would be doable. (It’s all made up and the timeline/number of motels doesn’t matter). Thanks for reading and indulging my post-canon hot take!


End file.
